


Wounds and Whispers

by auri_mynonys



Series: The Usurper King [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Morality, F/M, Forced Marriage, Lust Potion/Spell, Masturbation, Masturbation in Bathroom, Mildly Dubious Consent, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Voice Kink, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auri_mynonys/pseuds/auri_mynonys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prequel to Dark Stallion; part of the Usurper King verse. After Eowyn insults Grima publicly, he shuns her company - and her bed - for many long weeks. When he returns, he has a few interesting new tricks to show his lonely queen - but they will come at a price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wounds and Whispers

**Author's Note:**

> Usurper!Grima-verse, pre-Dark Stallion. Prompt was ‘G/E - Grima making her orgasm just by using his voice.’
> 
> Well, it isn’t just his voice - but his voice figures heavily into this one.
> 
> Features the usual warnings regarding WHOA HEY FUCKED UP RELATIONSHIP AHOY. There is the use of spell-casting here, but it’s not used to alter Eowyn’s will - merely to enhance the mood, as it were. Regardless, Grima is a pervy perv with an unfortunate lack of a moral compass and Eowyn is lonely, bitter, and angry, and all of the above can only lead to a great deal of angst and relationship pain. If these are things that may be uncomfortable/triggery for you, you may wish to sit this one out.

Gríma King has not come to Éowyn’s bed in weeks. It is a testament to his temper and his ability to hold a grudge that he stays away so long – and a testament to Éowyn’s loneliness that his absence is annoying to her.

It starts with an insult – a simple one, one let slip without thought in front of a throne room full of sullen, wrathful courtiers. It has become so commonplace for Éowyn to banter freely with Gríma – to insult where she will, and wait for him to strike back – that she does not much consider the comment before it bursts from her mouth. But once said it cannot be taken back; and from the fury in Gríma’s eyes, she knows she has struck a blow more grievous than she had ever intended.

There is no chance for an explanation, and Gríma does not respond to her attempts to soften the blow. They are admittedly weak attempts – a touch of her hand to his; agreeing with him in the face of a protesting courtier; taking his arm when he rises to leave. But he shakes her off at every turn, and leaves her to see the courtiers out alone.

At first, Éowyn thinks it is a fit of anger that will last a few days at most. They are only recently wed, and in the wake of her submission to the marriage bed, he has taken every opportunity given to him to have her. His lust, it seems, is as great as the sea, and will not be slaked, no matter how many times he pins her beneath him and buries himself inside her.

He will not resist her siren song for long, she thinks. He cannot. He needs her.

Yet weeks have come and gone with no sign of Gríma returning. As if to avoid temptation, he does not even sleep within their shared chambers, keeping instead to the ever-growing archive he maintains in the depths of Meduseld.

And to her shock, Éowyn finds she misses him – aches for him, even. He may be a usurper, a traitor to all she holds dear; but he is also her sole companion, and, at least in this regard, he has been very, very good to her. He has been a careful student of her body, playing and exploring until he finds new spots to tease. She knows now that she is sensitive at her throat; that breathy whispers in her ear will set her blood racing; that a finger tracing her knee will excite her more surely than a kiss. Her wrists love his mouth, her breasts his tongue and teeth. Kisses on her stomach make her wrench and twist and writhe. All of these together, and every last inch of her surrenders. She will part her legs and let him do whatever he likes – particularly if he puts that clever tongue to use. It has more talents, she has found, that those merely involving words.

Éowyn has come to expect this sweet release. She has come to want it, too, and waits for it impatiently, pacing about their bedroom in increasingly flimsy gowns. Sometimes she does not even bother with nightgowns, shooing her maids away and stretching naked atop the furs, waiting with feigned indifference for the King to come to her.

But no amount of nakedness or taunting robes can tease him back to her this time; and Éowyn, loath as she is to admit it, is growing impatient.

By all accounts Gríma’s anger at the remark has passed. In court he is the kindest of husbands, pressing kisses to her hand, speaking to her of ordinary, pleasant things. If anyone seems discomfited, it is Éowyn, whose wrath grows daily while she waits. Each touch from him is a torment, each knowing glance he gives her a goading taunt.

He is punishing her through denial; and, despite all of Éowyn’s protests, it appears that it is working.

*

Two, Éowyn thinks, can play at this game.

She does not need him for her release. There was a time before him when she cared for her own desires free of any partner; and if he thinks denying her his person is punishment, he will have to think again.

Éowyn summons her maids to draw a bath. When it is filled she shoos them from her quarters, hurrying to the small side chamber containing her tub and barring the door once inside. She strips and slides into the tub with a relieved sigh, the warm water enveloping her, lapping at her skin and soothing the tension from her muscles.

Heat has always been a great pleasure for Éowyn; and since her first night as a married woman, baths have held a special significance for her, a sexual connotation she can never quite disassociate. She closes her eyes and thinks of how Gríma felt beneath her hands, hot and slick and hungry for her, smelling of soap and sex. It is the most masculine he has ever seemed to her, bared completely before her in every way. Her head cants back in the tub, the memory of his hands and his mouth sending a new kind of heat pulsing through her veins. She bites her lip and traces her fingers slowly down her body, pausing to toy with one breast, stroking fingers down her stomach to the warmth between her legs.

The first touch makes her shiver, but it does not inspire as strong a reaction as she had hoped. Gritting her teeth, she closes her eyes the tighter and focuses on the memory of him, the smell of him and the sounds he makes, the filthy curses he likes to whisper in her ear when he bends her over the bed. And it works, for a few frustrating moments: moments fraught with desperate concentration and a shallow rise towards some kind of release, small though it appears it means to be.

She is almost – almost – at the pinnacle when, from the other side of the door, Gríma clears his throat.

Éowyn yelps, her focus shattered, pulling her knees up to her chest. “What?” she snaps, turning in the tub to face the door. It is, thankfully, barred against his entrance; perhaps he does not know what she is about.

“So irritable,” Gríma says, his voice a mocking sulk. “Poor little warrior. Whatever could be the trouble?”

“There’s no trouble,” Éowyn says, grinding her teeth. “What are you doing here? If you came for the bath, you will have to wait. It currently has an occupant.”

“So I gathered from those interesting little sounds you were making mere moments ago,” Gríma replies, honey-sweet. “And was that my name I heard escaping from your lips?”

“No,” Éowyn says, indignantly, though of course it certainly was. Had she spoken his name aloud? She had never meant to do so…

“Are you certain?” Gríma says, his voice low and ever so alluring. “You cried out so loudly, I thought you must surely be in need of me…”

Éowyn’s nerves are screaming, every inch of her body howling for the release she has been denied. “You were mistaken,” she says, fingers curling around the edge of the tub as if it is his throat.

He chuckles, a soft rumble deep in his chest. “You always were a terrible liar, my lovely. Come, open the door. Surely you can muster a warmer welcome for your long-absent husband?”

Éowyn growls, turning over in the water, sinking up to her nose. She knows she must look like a sulky child; but as he cannot see her, the thought does not trouble her much. She comes up long enough to say, “And why should you think I would leap to welcome you, my lord? It is you who has chosen to avoid me.”

“You insulted me.” The phrase is spoken casually, but Éowyn knows there is nothing casual about his tone. He is still angry, still seething about her remark.

“It was meant in jest,” she says, turning back to the door.

He makes an indignant sound. “Don’t play that game with me, Éowyn. I have spent too long watching you, reading you, to mistake a petty quip for an outright insult. You meant to hurt me.”

Éowyn sinks deeper into the water, muttering, “Apparently I was successful.”

“Apparently,” he growls, “You were.” He draws in a breath, releases it. “But no matter. How have you enjoyed your weeks of isolation, my queen? Has it pleased you to be rid of my company? Surely that is what you wished for, when you spoke so harshly to me – to drive me away, and have your bed blissfully empty of me?”

She means to form the lie and spit it in his face, but the truth bursts out instead, hot and angry and uncontrollable, in the form of another insult – and a weak one at that. “You’re a bastard.”

He laughs. “Temper, temper.” He murmurs something, and the bar on the door snaps back, unlocking it as if by magic. Éowyn stares, aghast, as the door opens of its own accord, revealing Gríma leaning lazily against the frame. He is a shadow in her doorway, eyes burning with cold fire.

“You are no less lovely for my absence, my lady,” he says, with unnecessary emphasis on the possessive. “Though you do look rather tense. Perhaps I might assist you in that regard…”

“How – ?” Éowyn is too shocked at the sudden movement of the door to care about his smug smile.

“It is an intriguing trick, isn’t it?” Gríma says, stepping inside the room. His cloak sweeps behind him like a serpent’s tail, hissing as it slips over stone. “The merest little touch of sorcery. One learns valuable things when one is friendly with a wizard.”

“I am sure Saruman would be thrilled to know you use whatever magical gifts you possess to open doors on helpless, unclothed, unsuspecting young women,” she spits, recovering herself at his nearness.

“Unclothed, perhaps,” Gríma says dismissively. “But helpless – you? Never.”

The compliment assuages some of her temper, but not enough to allow him the view he clearly hopes for. He is peering into the water eagerly, hunger igniting in his eyes. _Don’t you dare,_ Éowyn thinks, curling her knees up to her chest and tugging at her hair so that it hides her breasts from his probing gaze. _You are not permitted to abandon me like this and then get precisely what you want upon your return._ She glares over her knees, more disdainful and defiant than abashed at her nakedness.

Gríma licks his lips as his eyes rove over her skin. Oh, it is plain that he has missed her; Éowyn would be blind not to see it. But the Wormtongue’s patience is formidable. He waited years to have her – and he is certain, now, that he will have her again. What are a few minutes more, when triumph is so certain?

He takes a chair and sits beside the tub, as if this is a garden party and she merely another guest. “Have I ever told you of the sirens of the sea?” he asks. “Sailors used to sing of them, long ago – beautiful maidens who lived beneath the water, and seduced sailors with their songs.”

Éowyn frowns, wary at this strange turn. “You have mentioned such tales in passing, when I have trouble sleeping.”

“Ah. I had forgotten.” He smiles, leaning forward, elbows propped upon his knees, fingers folded beneath his chin. “I have told you so many pretty tales to soothe you back to sleep… have you missed those too, sweeting, in my absence?”

Éowyn has awoken more nights than she cares to remember screaming with her nightmares. His presence at her back has been a soothing balm to her, his voice and stories an anchor amidst the ocean of her panic. This, too, she did not expect when first they wed; and yes, this, too, she has missed – his hands tender and soft upon her back, his mouth murmuring fairy tales into her ear. “My sleep goes undisturbed,” she lies. “Had you something to say on the subject of these sirens?”

He tilts his head. “It is only a small thing,” he says. “I cannot help but imagine they must have looked very much as you do now.”

It is a pretty compliment, Éowyn supposes, and some would blush to hear it; but Éowyn knows he pays no compliments without expecting something in return – and she has no doubt of what it is he wants. “Would you have me seduce you with a song, my lord?” she asks, mockingly coy. “I am afraid I have no ballads that you would find so pleasing as my body – unless, of course, your proclivities have changed in the weeks you have been absent. I suppose it’s possible you might conceive to have a whore, now that you apparently have grown bored of me.”

She expects him to be angry at the accusation, flimsy though it is; but he merely laughs, unfolding his hands and leaning closer. “Oh, you are truly in fine form,” he says. “Did you miss me so much? Poor darling. I shan’t leave you to your own devices like this again, if you might consider a truce of sorts.”

Éowyn is all suspicion, eyes narrowed. “That will depend upon your terms.”

Gríma arches brows that are not there. “Terms?” he said. “Have we reached that stage, my Queen? Are we at war?”

Éowyn scoffs. “We have been at war since the day we met.”

He concedes the point with a graceful incline of his head. “I daresay it is time we put said war to rest – don’t you?”

Éowyn considers him for an instant before unfolding her knees and lazily inching across the tub to him, setting her chin upon its rim, her arm laid inches from his fingers. “You would grow bored,” she says, “And so would I.”

He tries to control his face, but he cannot quite hide the upward twitch of his lips. “As you wish,” he says, drawing back. The distance annoys Éowyn, and her sulky expression shows it. “Then perhaps you will consider a short reprieve.”

“That will, again, depend upon your terms,” Éowyn says, walking her fingers along the tub’s edge, over and away from his.

Gríma shrugs. “They are simple enough,” he says. “I will return to you, and resume my duties are your husband and lover, and you…” His eyes blaze with cold fury. “You, my Queen, will never insult me again.”

Éowyn tries not to flinch away from his stare, going very still where she sits. “I presume you mean publicly,” she says, boldly. It is foolish of her to take the risk, but necessary; the distinction is important.

A muscle in his jaw tightens. “I would prefer it if you would cease to insult me entirely.”

Éowyn smiles bitterly. “And I would prefer it if my family were still alive and well and my kingdom free of dark and sorcerous masters,” she replies. “Yet here we are.”

Something like guilt flashes across his face. “I saved your life.”

“Aye, that you did,” Éowyn agrees. “I wish you had been half so heroic on behalf of my uncle, brother, and cousin.”

“Your uncle,” Gríma says, grinding his teeth, “Was consumed by grief. He could hardly handle his own affairs, let alone a kingdom’s. Before Saruman it was I who kept this country afloat, who protected it in the name of the King.”

“My uncle was a great man,” Éowyn spits, sitting up. Her nakedness no longer troubles her. Her anger is a bright, hot pit in her stomach, flaring like a dragon’s flame.

“Oh, yes,” Gríma agrees, his fury as evident as her own. “A good man, the best of men. He was kind and wise and generous, and yet still he is dead – and Rohan would be too, if not for me.”

Éowyn balls her fingers into fists, aching to hit him. “You cannot say that for a certainty.”

“Can’t I?” he retorts, leaning forward once more. “Think on it, Éowyn. Think of the army Saruman possesses, the Uruk-hai you have seen. Do you really expect that Rohan could have withstood their attacks? They have wargs, and servants from Mordor to join with them. What have we? Horses, and brave men – brave men who would die one by one upon the battlefield, as your cousin and brother died, as your uncle would have died – as you would have died.”

“Perhaps I would rather have died than live to be your wife!” Éowyn shouts, and flinches immediately away from her own words, hating herself, hating him, regretting him, wanting him.

He draws back as if he has been stabbed in the gut. His eyes are wide and wounded, but anger is flooding back into him again, the same cold fury that drove him away weeks before. “Well,” he says, rising from the chair and pushing it out of the way, “if that is how you feel, my lady, then perhaps a reprieve is unnecessary. Clearly, you have been much happier without me troubling your nights – and I did swear to place your happiness forever above my own, did I not?”

“You have done a poor job of it,” she snaps, her anger and guilt getting the better of her.

The muscles in his jaw clench and tighten. “Fine,” he says, turning from her in one smooth gesture, his cloak swirling about him. “Have it your way. Be alone, if that is what you want.”

The words strike her in the heart, more painfully than she ever imagined such simple words could. She thinks of the dark nights ahead of her, the nightmares that will trouble her, the aching loneliness that will consume her. She hates him, wants him, is terrified by him – needs him.

He is all she has.

He starts towards the door, and despair crashes over her in a dark wave. “Don’t,” she bursts out, leaping free of the tub. “Please – just – ”

“Just – what, Éowyn?” Gríma snaps, barely glancing over his shoulder. “Stay? No. It will merely make you unhappy to be in my presence, and as you yourself have said, I have shown a remarkable aptitude for making you unhappy – a thing which I mean to fix.”

“Then don’t go,” Éowyn cries, her voice cracking. She grabs for the robe her handmaidens laid out for her, throwing it over her shoulders and tying it haphazardly at her waist. “Please – don’t – ”

He turns very suddenly, so suddenly that Éowyn nearly runs into him. Gasping, she pulls up short, stumbling as she tries to back away. “What is it you want of me, Éowyn?” he demands. “What would you have me say to you? That I regret your uncle’s death? I do. He was, as you say, a great man. But under him Rohan could not survive – and neither could you. And I value you far more than any other in Rohan. I paid the price to save your life, and the cost was our submission. But our country thrives, and we are still here. What matter the masters, if we may stand and live in peace?”

“You cannot think this peace will last,” Éowyn says, gesturing to the outside world. “The Dark Lord and your wizard are forever at each other’s throats, spying, scheming, plotting. You think I do not know what the White Wizard tells you when he speaks with you, but I do. He will have us slaughtered before the Dark Lord in his own quest for power, and then what will be left for you, or for me? We will be cold corpses in the ground, just as dead as we might have been had we never sacrificed our integrity or pride.”

“You mean my integrity and pride,” Gríma says, very softly.

She stops, swallows hard. He is partially right, of course – but she realizes, with a wrench of her gut, that she means herself, too. For what else has she given up to him, if not her integrity and her pride? What else has she tossed aside to accept him as her husband, to take pleasure in his presence, in his hands? “I meant,” she says, her voice breaking, “Ours.”

He frowns for an instant, but then he seems to understand, without a single word being spoken. And it is this, she thinks, that hurts her most: that of all the people whom she has loved in her life, the only one who has ever truly understood her is the one who has betrayed her trust.

She shuts her eyes and hates herself for the tears that spill unbidden down her cheeks.

The sight of her tears must drive any remaining vestiges of Gríma’s anger from him. In moments he gathers her in his arms, pressing kisses to her cheeks. “Éowyn,” he murmurs, desperate, frantic, “Precious, I’m sorry – for everything. For every sin I have committed in your name, for every time that I have saddened or hurt you – a thousand times over, I beg your forgiveness.”

She is not certain he means it, but for the moment – just this moment – it is enough. She sinks gratefully against his chest and clings to him, her arms tight around his neck. “I have not slept properly in weeks,” she confesses, hiding her face in the juncture of his neck and shoulders.

It is a stupid confession, a small one – but it only seems to increase his affection. “Well, sweeting, you will sleep soundly tonight,” he breathes, pressing a kiss to her ear. She shivers in his arms, a chill having nothing to do with the dampness of her body or her thin robe.

Gríma, for once, mistakes it for a mere sign of coldness, perhaps too caught up in his own guilt to read her properly. His grip upon her tightens, then loosens immediately. He steps back and shrugs off his cloak, throwing it around her shoulders and pinning the clasp in place. “Here,” he murmurs, before darting to the bed – their bed, she thinks – and tugging the furs back. She almost protests when he returns to her and lifts her from the floor, carrying her to the bed and gently laying her upon it. He covers her lap with the furs and steps back, hovering nervously. She huddles inside his cloak, biting her lip, her hair hanging wetly over her shoulders.

This at last seems to distract Gríma from his fretting. He goes to her nightstand and lifts her comb, sliding into the bed behind her and gently pulling her into his lap. “Here,” he says. “You should not sit with damp hair.”

Éowyn nods, settling between his legs and letting him run the comb through her hair. The feeling is soothing, easing the last of her bitterness and anger from her. Humming with pleasure, she settles her hand on his thigh, rubbing her thumb in slow circles over his breeches.

The combing slows. Gríma is distracted. For a minute, Éowyn doesn’t know what it is that’s attracting his attention; but when she realizes it’s her hand, she smiles softly and eases up his leg, slowly, smoothing the muscles beneath her hand.

He growls against her neck. “Have a care with that hand, lovely,” he says, breath hot against her skin. “Don’t start such games with me unless you mean to see them through to completion.”

Éowyn turns, wearing her most innocent expression. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my lord,” she says, widening her eyes.

He is far from fooled. A twisted smile creeps across his face, and he sets aside the comb, closing his hands around her waist. “Shall I show another trick the wizard taught me?”

Éowyn frowns. Talk of Saruman does not please her. It reminds her that Gríma is the servant of a terrible master – reminds her of all the things they are attempting, just now, to put behind them. “I suppose…” she says, stiffening slightly.

“Oh, there’s no need for that,” Gríma purrs, pressing his lips to her throat. “Relax, sweeting. Focus on my voice.”

Éowyn is still uncertain, but she obediently closes her eyes, determined not to anger him again. For a moment he is silent; but when he speaks next, his voice is – different. Powerfully different. She can feel it in her very bones, snaking through her blood, muddling her thoughts.

“How do you want it, my lady?” he asks, in a voice that is both his and not his. This voice is luxurious, stroking her skin as if it is Gríma’s own hand. She gasps, heat flaring between her legs, pooling in her lower back. “I would offer you my tongue, but I’m afraid for this little experiment I need it,” he continues mercilessly, as Éowyn bites her lip and arches against him. “But perhaps you might enjoy my fingers this time; it has been such a long time since you’ve let me play that way.”

The heat puddled in her lower back is flaring up her spine now, slipping languidly down to her ankles, tracing a path through every nerve. “What – how are you – ” she says, gasping again a moment later as a shiver of pure pleasure takes her.

“Saruman deemed it a necessity for me to possess a charmed tongue,” Gríma says, in the same sorcerous voice. Éowyn straightens like a board as another wave of pleasure takes her, balling her fists in the furs. “He meant for its use to be strictly political, of course; but it is a flexible form of magic, and has its uses outside of the political arena.”

“Ooh.” Éowyn shudders, hips rolling towards a hand that isn't there. “You might have had me at any time with such a spell.” The words are spoken wildly, dropped without thinking. The idea shocks her, that all this time Gríma possessed the means to seduce her completely and never used them. And oh, what a delight this first experience is…

“I might have,” Gríma agrees. “But I much prefer you with all of your faculties, cruel as you can be.”

This reminder of their fight momentarily draws Éowyn out from the reverie of his voice – but he does not pause for long. “If it is easier,” he tells her, “think of it not as a will-breaker, but rather as an… enhancement. A toy of sorts, if you will.”

“Saruman must despise you for using his magic so uncouthly,” Éowyn says, then moans sharply. Heat floods her veins again, a mad rush of delightful intensity. She grits her teeth and curses, rolling her hips once more. “Ooh…”

Gríma settles his mouth by her ear, laying his fingers tenderly against her neck to hold her in place. “You never told me what you desired,” he says, his voice heavy with magic. It sharpens every sense within her body, nerve endings sparking.

Éowyn imagines his tongue for a moment, but blurts, “Fingers,” before her mind can think to protest.

“As you wish,” Gríma murmurs, breath hot against her ear. “Open your legs.”

She snaps them apart at once, chest rising and falling in time with her breath. Gríma slips his fingers under the layers of robes that she wears to stroke bare skin, curling over her breast, pausing to toy with a nipple until it hardens. Éowyn throws her head back and moans, loudly, heedless of passerby. The remnants of whatever vocal spell he’s using are still in her blood – and oh, dear lord, she feels amazing. She could erupt at any moment, teetering at a dangerous peak of pleasure. “Gríma – !”

He makes a small sound, pure delight. “Oh, I have so missed hearing my name upon your lips,” he says, sliding his hand over her stomach, teasing her side, stroking her hipbone, before plunging between her legs. His fingers stroke across her most sensitive skin, and Éowyn jerks violently forward, crying out so loudly she momentarily fears a guard may come running. Desperately, she shoves a fist in her mouth, biting hard into her own skin.

“None of that,” Gríma growls, catching her hand and pulling it away. His voice – his damnable voice – “I want to hear you scream.”

Éowyn bites her lip, hard, and rocks towards his hand, gasping as his fingers stroke faster. “You may well have your wish, my lord,” she says between breaths, digging her fingers into the furs. “Don’t – don’t stop talking – ”

“Ah, my queen likes my enchanted voice, does she?” Gríma says. She can almost hear the smirk in his tone, but it hardly matters. “Good. I had so hoped it would please you…”

 _Please me?_ Éowyn thinks wildly, bucking forward to meet his hand. _I will die if you stop._ “My lord – ”

“No,” he growls. His voice is no longer heavy with his spell – it is merely sharp with reprimand. “No titles. I want you to say my name.”

The heat is draining from her already, even with his fingers working their magic on her skin. Whimpering, she turns in his lap to face him, darting forward to press her mouth to his. “Grima,” she whispers when she pulls back, catching his wrist and moving his hand lower.

His face is hot and flushed and eager. She knows he wants her desperately, but it is clear he is enjoying her torment. For the moment, he holds back. He slips a finger inside her, slowly, watching as her head cants back and she moans again. “Is that better, my lovely?” he says. The spell returns and washes over Éowyn in a flood of warmth, sinking under her skin, rushing through her blood.

“Oh, yes – !” she says, both affirmation and hiss of pleasure. “ _Yes_ – ”

“Good,” he says, the word fiercely possessive. And then his fingers are thrusting inside her, hard, stroking faster. He has, Éowyn thinks, exceptionally beautiful hands – long, clever fingers that move just as she likes, curling within her to tease her intimately.

He accompanies the gesture with a stream of words, all couched within the magic tone that so sets her blood aflame. The sentences blur and twist until they have no meaning but delight, ringing hotly in her ears. In response she arches and twists against his hand, gasping, crying out, heedless of the volume of her voice and the servants who might be near.

She tightens around his fingers, clawing at his shoulders, as her pleasure rises to a fever pitch. At long last it is about to snap and break, more powerfully than she could ever have hoped – and then Gríma withdraws from her and stops speaking, a vicious smirk lighting his face.

“No,” he says, when she opens her eyes in startled fury. “I don’t think so. It isn't time just yet.”

And just like that, her climax ebbs away, leaving her wild with her frustration. She cries out, alarmed and angry, digging her nails into his shoulders. “Don’t you dare – ” she snarls, grinding down against him. He shudders underneath her, already hard and wanting for her – but he maintains remarkable control.

“Oh, I know you would not think to command me, my lady,” he says, his smile almost maniacal. “If you were to attempt so foolish a thing, I would, of course, be forced to deny you all satisfaction. Such a pity…”

“No!” Éowyn cries, biting her lip. “You cannot – please, I’m so close – ”

There is a feverish light in his eyes, a hunger to see her beg yet more – and he will not give her what she wants until she begs just as he likes. “No,” he says, drunk on his power, drunk on her. “You will not come. Not until I say you may.”

Heat shimmers beneath her skin, bubbling in her blood. It has not receded entirely with the absence of his spell-gifted voice, but remains there, insistent, impossible to ignore. The depth of her need is staggering. “Grim!” she pleads. The long-disused nickname falls freely from her lips, a whine of affection, a promise of her love and desire. She will regret it in the morning when she thinks on it again; but in this moment, giving him this victory is a small price to pay to receive her completion.

He grins, a vicious, unforgiving grin – but there is no doubt he is pleased. “Good girl,” he croons into her ear, voice laden with his spell once again. “I like it when you say my name.”

She waits expectantly, hoping for his hand again – but he makes no move to touch her. She squirms, desperate to rekindle the fire between her legs. The heat is still there, a dangerous, insistent throbbing that will not go away – but it remains at that torturous level, never rising, never breaking. “Grim – ” she says again, voice cracking. “Please – _please_ – ”

He moves to kiss her neck, slowly, as if he has all the time in the world. “It’s hardly fair, is it, my lady – for you to receive such pleasure and for me to receive nothing?”

Éowyn shifts impatiently, grinding her teeth. “I presume you remember how to guide yourself inside me – or must we have a lesson, to remind you of what you've forgotten during your lengthy absence?”

He almost – _almost_ – laughs, but catches himself before it escapes. “Oh, now, we can’t have that sort of attitude, lovely,” he says. Éowyn is briefly confused, for his voice is still heavy with magic and her body throbs the hotter for it; but it only sets her anxious need a level higher than it was before, holding steady, refusing to break. She gasps, arches forward, moaning desperately. “If you mean to be saucy, I can always leave you sitting here…”

“No!” Éowyn says, her voice ragged. “No, please, take me, have me however you like, just let me come – ”

Gríma grins, tugging at the laces of his breeches, freeing himself. “Perhaps,” he says, before catching her around the hips and dragging her to him, slowly easing her down onto his length. “If you are good…”

Éowyn curses violently, squirming under his hands, eager for all of him. He soothes her with a word, a phrase, all spiking the desire within her to heights unknown. When he frees her hips and lets her go at him as she pleases, she catches the headboard of the bed and rides him like a prize stallion, moaning loudly and unabashedly when he slips a hand between her legs to stroke her at the source of her pleasure.

It has been a long, long time since they have been together, and Gríma’s pleasure takes him much sooner than usual. Gasping, he clutches at her thigh and drags her hard against him, hissing in her ear, “Come, sweet lady, come with me – ” And at last the spell releases her and lets her pleasure climb and break, snapping into an explosive firework of sensation that sends her coiling around him with a piercing scream, her clinging fingers nearly snapping the delicately carved edge of the headboard away in her hands.

Éowyn tumbles away from him with a gasp, collapsing next to him on the bed. His cloak hangs loosely off her shoulders, the thin robe she wears beneath it torn in places from his hands. Her body is slick with sweat, languid and heavy with her new-found release. She makes a sound like a happy little bird, stretching and smiling in contentment. “Mmm…” she murmurs, listening to Gríma as his breath slows beside her.

He runs a hand through his dark hair, chest rising and falling as he struggles to regain composure. He makes a small sound in return, an agreement. “I shall consider that particular spell a rousing success, I think,” he says at last, glancing at her with a sly grin.

Éowyn smiles, pushing a few tangled curls from her face. “I give you leave to do so,” she says, “And give you leave also to use it again. Since it pleases you so greatly,” she adds, heat rushing to her cheeks when Gríma casts her a broad, knowing smirk.

“How generous of you,” Gríma drawls, turning and gathering her in his arms. She squeaks and makes to escape, playfully, a small flirtation in which she only indulges when she is feeling particularly well-disposed to Gríma. He bares his teeth and growls at her, equally in play, easily capturing her again and pinning her against his chest. “You are so terribly put-upon, my queen, to be forced to suffer such pleasures.”

There are many things that Éowyn could say to that, remarks that would wound and guilt him all over again; and, she thinks, he would deserve each and every one. But for once, she stays silent, settling against him and taking comfort in his warmth. “You mentioned sirens, my lord,” she says, stroking gentle fingers over the folds of his dark shirt. “Tell me about them.”

He grins and indulges her, one hand in her hair; and Éowyn lays with him and listens, and wishes it could always be like this – wishes for a world so simple and uncomplicated, a world of only him and his stories and the circle of his arms.


End file.
